


Something Death-like

by doctor_jasley



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M, Supernatural Creatures, Violence, an afterlife au, disturbing imagery, offscreen OC character death, possible religious blasphemy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 13:02:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor_jasley/pseuds/doctor_jasley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In special cases, life goes on even when you’re dead. Though, that’s always up for interpretation. Brendon doesn’t know if being put on Supernatural Pest Control means he has a life or just a function the Death Department can exploit. At least, he isn’t alone, what with Frank sitting right beside him in their green, ‘67 Ford Thunderbird as they speed down highways and backroads toward their jobs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Death-like

**Author's Note:**

> This is my wave three story for [Bandom Big Bang](http://bandombigbang.dreamwidth.org) 2013
> 
> Bootson continues to be the BEST person to exist. She betaed and listened to me whine. For a more indepth A/N you can fine that [Here](http://doctor-jasley.dreamwidth.org/84399.html)
> 
> ladytiferet did some super BOSS title art for this story. You should all go check it out [HERE](http://ladytiferet.livejournal.com/29525.html)
> 
> theletterelle once again hit a grandslam with her mix [not-death](http://doctor-jasley.dreamwidth.org/84125.html). You all need to go listen to it. It's EPIC.

**Something Death-like**

Dust kicks up along the side of the highway as cars speed down the cracked road. The sun’s high in the sky. Brendon rolls down his window and sticks his hand out to catch on a draft. He’s always enjoyed the feel of rushing air between and around his fingers.

Frank fiddles with the radio station knob when “Born to be Wild” starts to fizzle into evangelical bible-thumping. No one’s in the mood for that. Not now, not ever.

Brendon’s not surprised when they’re plunged into silence. He’s already pulling his hand inside the car to rifle through their tape collection. He’s not a fan of cassettes, but it’s the best they can do.

At least they don’t have to deal with an eight-track deck. That would be horrible. 

He shoves a mixtape - labeled _Love Will Prevail_ in cracked, black Sharpie - into the cassette deck, and "Let the Sunshine in" starts playing. The song’s the B-side to “The Age of Aquarius,” and Frank hates it with a passion even if he _always_ sings along. By the time they hit the second song on the mix, he’ll press rewind and they’ll listen to it again.

There are a lot of memories attached to this tape. Not just those of its previous owner and her love-sick boyfriend. But of Brendon and Frank’s own issues. Of the roads they’ve travelled to get here. The struggles and the scars that they’ve collected just to share the same space.

The pain neither of them can seem to let go.

Maybe they should toss the damn thing after all. Brendon’s thought about just twining fingers in the tape itself while yanking hard enough to snap it. Yet, he never does. 

Frank’s the same way. He went as far as chucking the cassette out the window once, only to slam the Thunderbird into park and fling himself out so he could grab the fucking tape. He cursed the whole way; Brendon knows because he followed.

They’re stuck with the damn thing as much as they’re stuck with the others they’ve _found_ on their travels. Along with the other souvenirs they’ve collected over the years that are left untouched in a box in the back seat floorboard. There’s not much use for CDs and mp3 players when the Thunderbird hates technology invented after the early eighties.

Their only venture into the two thousands ended miserably when their recently purchased CD player caught on fire. Smoke filtered out of the slot before flames started melting the hard plastic. Of course the Thunderbird’s console was _fine_. Not a single scorch mark marred the dash, while the CD deck was completely fucked.

Luckily - _unluckily_ \- there wasn’t a mix CD in the player at the time. So they didn’t lose someone’s memory. Just the CD player and the _Best of Quiet Riot_ album Frank lifted from the Walmart a block from where they _bought_ the CD player.

Just outside of Kansas, they tossed both into a dumpster with a faded smiley face spray-painted on the side. 

Then it took a whole day sitting in a parking lot to reinstall the cassette deck because the Thunderbird hates them. Frank cursed the whole way through, even though Brendon was the one being zapped by wires as he reconnected them. Needless to say, the patrons of that local Jack in the Box eyed them, warily. Thankfully, no one called the cops.

Not that law enforcement can do them any harm. It’s rare that anyone cares enough to pay that much attention. Adults see them at a glance and get tense, bustling by quicker than they normally would, but that’s it.

Children are a bit different. However, that’s neither here nor there. Brendon prefers not to dwell on such things. Not when he doesn’t have to.

They get all the way to the last song on the A-side before Frank can’t take anymore. He jabs the stop button with his middle finger then hits eject. _Hard_.

“Who do I have to fucking kill to get something _happier_?”

“All My Love” gets him every time. Brendon’s not surprised. The song holds weight neither of them are willing to talk about. 

Whatever. They can do a different tape. 

“Death doesn’t exactly deal in happiness. They’re _sadly_ not the ‘Church of England’. You can’t just expect cake or chicken.”

Brendon’s already sifting through the box that shares space in the footwell with his battered sneakers. There are about fifty cassettes in the box, all mixtapes carefully recorded by mothers, brothers, fathers, siblings, or lovers for the people they cherished. 

It’s been a few years since a _new_ tape was added to their collection. No one makes cassette mixtapes anymore. It’s 2013, after all, and the cassette tape is so dead it’s been buried for years.

The mixtapes have turned into mixed CDs - which are useless to them - which then morphed into playlists. Brendon’s always been a fan of mp3s and his iPod from _before_ , but modern technology doesn’t mean much when it fizzles out like a sparkler being dunked under water.

Even the cell phones they carry aren’t immune to distortion and death. Brendon’s kept a running tally on how long it takes for one of their phones to become a pocket brick. The longest they’ve ever lasted was six months. The shortest, three steps. Which would have been embarrassing if not for that being the same moment a gremlin tried to eat Frank’s face off. 

Gremlin disposal trumps mocking any day. It’s the only thing that does.

Brendon plucks out a tape with faded, red marker on the side. Miranda Kolby wasn’t a particularly _good_ judge of timing but her mix has heart, even if the songs start thirty seconds too late and the static is, sometimes, unbearable. Her sister, Kennedy, loved it until the day she died. 

And, now. It’s in constant rotation in the Thunderbird. Nothing chases away the blues like Cyndi Lauper, Joan Jett, Alice Cooper, and Heart. 

It’s possible they don’t love it as much as Kennedy did. Yet, it continues to matter. Kennedy and Miranda’s rock-solid friendship lives on. Just not the way they thought it would.

Different, yet, still important.

Frank belts out “Barracuda” with Brendon while they turn into a little gas station an hour before dusk. It’s good to just unwind occasionally without having to think too much about the past. Nothing does that better that a tape with “School’s Out” followed by “Bad Reputation.”

There are two cars in the lot when they pull up to one of the pumps. One has a faded _vote for_ sticker on the rusted-out bumper. The sticker’s so damn old that the name of who to vote for has flaked off or faded away into nothing.

Brendon’s going to go out on a limb and say that one belongs to the guy behind the counter. He’s old and only a few years shy of a stroke zapping him dead while he sleeps. It’s nothing Brendon and Frank will have to show up for, so there’s no reason to dig deeper.

Their jobs don’t include natural causes. Not anymore.

Frank cuts the ignition. Brendon gets out, going for the squeegee and a handful of blue paper towels instead of the pump. It’s a time-honored tradition that they bicker while Frank pumps gas and smokes.

No one’s ever come out to tell him not to light up. Brendon doesn’t even think it’s possible they could cause an explosion. Frank’s been smoking from the same pack with the same disposable Bic since he first started this gig. 

The box never empties and the Bic is always three-fourths full. It never changes. Much like the pack of Juicy Fruit Brendon keeps in his pocket. He _always_ has five sticks left regardless of how many times he or Frank chew the last piece.

It’s a mystery of the universe. Something unusual that doesn’t have an explanation. Which is fine. 

It means they _always_ have cash. The exact _same_ amount they died with: two twenties, a five and three quarters for Brendon and seventy-five dollars and forty-five cents for Frank. They rarely use the cash, though, because Frank’s credit card still goes through. 

Why run the risk of never getting a bill back when plastic also works?

It’s not like they get paid. Not anymore. They’re working off black marks, instead. Brendon couldn’t care less. He doesn’t want to be an undead mailman delivering the dead, not himself, to their final home for peace and tranquility. 

He likes it here way more than any finite place.

The squeegee squeaks loudly when it runs across the wet surface of the Thunderbird’s windshield. 

Frank throws a balled-up towel at him. “If you crack the windshield, I’m going to leave you here to deal with Cranky Pants McGee inside. We have a schedule.” 

Brendon flips him off. Like Frank cares about their schedule. Brendon’s the one who keeps up with it because Frank conveniently _forgets_. Or his phone stops working because he purposefully drains it so he can’t get their next job via text.

“Like you give a shit about our schedule. We should go on tour. The Talking Gnome and His Best Human Friend _Ever_. It’ll be a laugh riot.”

Frank leans against the side of the Thunderbird to rock it. The pump clicks a few times as he tries to squeeze every drop of gas he can into their gas-guzzler. 

“Ha fucking ha. Pete’s still expecting us by the end of the month, isn’t he.”

It’s not a question. It’s also not a bland statement. Frank’s looking forward to Cali. For several reasons. Not all of them centered around Gentleman Kings and their clientele.

Brendon moves around the hood of the Thunderbird to plop the squeegee into the funky Windex water it lives in. 

“You just want to stalk your _friends_.” 

Frank shakes the handle before pulling it out and sliding the nozzle into its home with gusto. He shoulders past Brendon to lean against the side of the hood. “Like you’re not going to do the exact same fucking thing.”

“Only if we have time to detour northward.” Brendon leans over to fish Frank’s pack of smokes from his denim jacket along with the black Bic. If they’re going to talk about this, Brendon’s going to need nicotine.

Well, sort of. 

Chemicals don’t do shit for them anymore.Which is _fun_ as hell when they want to get smashed. It’s just not possible. Doesn’t stop them from drinking when they pull up to a dive bar. Vodka still tastes like rubbing alcohol. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed, thank fuck.

Frank shoulder checks him. “Get your own fucking pack, moocher dickhole.” He snatches the box and lighter back after Brendon’s shaken a cigarette out and lit it.

They stand like that for a few minutes, smoking while watching cars zoom by. Behind them the gas station’s door bell jingles. Brendon doesn’t have to turn to know it’s the occupants of the second car in the lot booking it for their little Honda.

Carly Jones and her daughter, Simone, don’t have anything written on them for many years, as of now. However, that can always change. Fate has a way of being fickle.

Holy fuck, does it.

The Honda pulls out. Simone presses her face against the glass and waves at them as her mother turns into traffic. Brendon waves back.

“Fucking _please_ , if we’re going north after? Of course, we’re fucking damn well going north after.” Frank tosses his butt. It hits the ground a few feet away and the cherry goes out before it’s rolled to a stop. There’s not even a trail of smoke clawing skyward.

Brendon takes one last inhale. When he’s done, he pinches the glowing ember until it snuffs out and flicks his butt toward Frank’s. He feels the pain distantly. A minor burn isn’t anything new. 

Like everything else, the small hurts are muted.

Only the traumatic things pack a punch at this stage in their _not_ lives. It’s not as if they can bleed out and _die_ or turn to ash at sunrise. Not even a bullet to the head can stop them. 

They’re not zombies.

Or vampires, either, for that matter.

They’re just dead. While, obviously, not being _dead_. People can and _do_ see them. They’re _not_ ghosts. Those assholes get off easy, comparatively.

It’s just, no one in a crowd knows who they are. They have no connections, no friendships, here. When they stalk Frank’s old friends, they don’t see Frank as _Frank_ , the guy they once knew who pulled asshole pranks and enjoyed ninja-hugging the shit out of them whenever he could. 

Brendon doesn’t know what they see. He never asks. But his best guess is all they notice is Frank’s a very unmemorable guy who vaguely reminds them of someone they’ve lost. That’s _it_.

Frank and Brendon never stay long. They can’t. Technically, they’re supposed to steer clear of the people they left behind. _Technically_ being the word here that they disregard with reckless abandon.

Keys stab into Brendon’s hand when Frank shoves them against his palm. “It’s your turn to man the boat. I’m taking a nap.”

Frank goes around the hood and slides into the passenger seat. He won’t sleep. They never do. Not really. It’s another thing lost to time and death.

Brendon runs a hand across a dark green patch of roof before popping the driver’s door and dropping into the seat. “We’re driving ‘til dawn. Get comfortable, shortie, no bathroom breaks, only gas stops.”

Frank punches him in the shoulder. “Shut it and fucking drive.”

Brendon mime’s eating a key just to piss Frank off. When Frank glares, he cranks the engine and peels out like they’re being chased by death hounds. 

Zipping through evening traffic is fun. There’s adventure, action, in the act. Which is something sorely missing from their lives 90% of the time.

Frank curses. He reaches over and plants a hand on Brendon’s knee, fingers digging into jean material as fucking hard as he can. “Slow the fucking fuck down. I will kill you myself if you don’t.”

Brendon grins and punches the accelerator when he sees a gap. Frank won’t do anything. He’s all threat, no bite. Well, not much bite. Temporary bruising doesn’t count.

Day slides into night. Headlights blink to life as the sun winks out for sleep. It’s a new moon tonight. So, there’s nothing but starlight and headlights to see by for miles once they break away from more populated areas. 

Frank moves his hand from Brendon’s knee and clicks the radio off when the DJ’s ramble about extraterrestrial life being _out_ there fades into static.

“It’s not your fault.”

Nope. They are _not_ having this conversation. 

“We both know that’s a lie.”

Except for, apparently, how they are. Fucking _great_. 

Frank digs his knuckles into Brendon’s thigh. “No one knew. We weren’t fucking told.”

Of course, they weren’t told. There was no reason for them to know a freak accident was _supposed_ to birth a new _watcher_. Hell, Brendon hadn’t even known he was a baby one in training until he didn’t _want_ to be one.

Until he met Frank, that is. Until they fucked so, _so_ many things up to stay together that it doesn’t matter what _was_ , only what _is_. 

“Because that’s a good defense against being fucking shoehorned into this _not_ life.” Brendon slams his hand against the top of the wheel. 

Frank stops kneading Brendon’s thigh; in fact, he goes as far as recoiling. “If we have it so damn, shitty fucking bad, why the fuck are you staying? Don’t you have a fucking _free_ pass back if you drop my ass?”

Brendon’s foot presses the brake as hard as he can. There’s no one behind them. He pulls the Thunderbird onto the shoulder and kills the engine but leaves the keys in the ignition.

Leaving Frank is not an option. Not now, not ever.

“Not going to happen. You’re not fucking getting rid of me. Why do you bring this shit up? Usually, you’re fucking _fine_ not talking about feelings, but lately, it’s all this bullshit about how nothing’s my fault and how _supporting_ you are if I _want_ to leave. I don’t _want_ absolution or whatever it is you think I _need_.”

It’s been pissing Brendon off a lot lately. He gave up so many things for Frank. He fought to tie Frank to the _here_ and _now_ when the Dark Gate wanted him. There are black marks on his skin because of that. Transgressions he’s bound to absolving.

He still doesn’t _care_.

 _Giving up_ implies that Brendon lost something he cared about, when really, he didn’t. He still doesn’t. Frank just. Doesn’t. Get. The. Point. Apparently, granting people passage to peace is something Brendon _wants_.

Just to make everything fucking clear. He doesn’t, and he’s told Frank this an infinity of times. He thought Frank had finally jumped on the belief bandwagon. 

Except, he hasn’t. Fucking great.

Brendon’s mindful of the gearshift when he twists in his seat and shoves Frank against the passenger door. He ends up with one knee wedged between Frank’s thigh and the seat back while the other keeps threatening to knock into the gearshift anyway. If only the Thunderbird had bench seating, this would be so much easier and less awkward.

“What the shitty fuck are you doing, motherfucker? We have tiny, dick biters to murder. We don’t having fucking time for whatever romantic bullshit’s going on in that hamster wheel brain of yours. Get off.” Frank curls fingers in Brendon’s overshirt instead of pushing him away.

If only they had time to _get off_. That would be excellent.

“We have a few minutes.” Brendon slides fingers through Frank’s hair before twisting and tugging him closer for a dirty kiss.

They haven’t been very _physical_ the past few days. Brendon hadn’t really thought about it. They’ve been too busy tracking and disposing of nasties to do much. But, now that he _is_ thinking about it, all he wants to do is keep pressing Frank against the door until he can crawl under Frank’s skin and live there. 

The feeling never lessens. Not really. It’s the only thing that tightens his chest anymore.

Frank gets a hand on the back of Brendon’s neck. Uneven nails bite into his skin. The pain’s nothing more than a dull sting, but he still moans against Frank’s lips. They could do this until dawn. 

Literally.

Being dead does wonders for breath control. Mostly in the department of not needing to breathe. At all. 

A car blasts by, nothing but a blur of yellow headlights and red tail lights, rocking the Thunderbird. 

Brendon pulls away from Frank’s mouth and huffs out a sigh. “After this, you’re paying for a room. There’s a lumpy mattress somewhere with our names on it.”

Frank smoothes his hand down the front of Brendon’s western shirt, snapping a few of the buttons together for the hell of it. It’s not like Brendon _isn’t_ wearing a shirt underneath or anything.

“Only if you’re putting out.” 

Brendon cuffs the side of Frank’s head before climbing back into the driver’s seat. Once he’s settled, he starts the engine and steers the Thunderbird off the shoulder. They have a destination to be at when dawn breaks through the slumber of night. 

Frank punches his shoulder. “If I’m the dude in this relationship, I should be getting ass.”

Brendon cuts the radio on without commenting. He station surfs until giving up when all he gets are bible verses layered with static. “Be a useful _dude_ and hand your boyfriend the mix you pretend to loath because it has “Highway to Hell” hidden in the middle.” 

Frank slides the tape in. “I hate you.”

Brendon blows a kiss at him. “Love you too, _dearest_.” Then starts laughing when Frank shakes his head at Brendon’s antics. 

The night stretches on forever. Until, it doesn’t.

Jim Morrison sings _day destroys the night_ in the background while Brendon takes a side road. He slows the Thunderbird to a crawl and clicks the radio off on _can you still recall the time we cried_ before rolling down his window. 

They’re looking for trouble. 

Frank catches sight of an inky shadow first. He smacks Brendon’s shoulder and flings open his door, not even waiting for Brendon to shift into park. He’s tapping his foot impatiently by the time Brendon rounds the back of the Thunderbird and tosses the keys at his head.

“We’re dyeing your hair blue later. Jesus, Brendon could you have gone any fucking slower? We have pests to exterminate.” Frank finds the trunk key, quickly. He unlocks it in half a second.

The truck top flies open, and Brendon moves closer to keep it from crashing down on Frank’s back when he bends to grab their shit. It doesn’t have a catch. If you don’t hold it, it slams shut.

“We’ve had this _talk_ before. Frankie, I’m sorry, but God doesn’t exist. There are no higher beings just secretaries and office administration.”

Frank flips him off. “You can be an asshole later. We have shit to do.”

It takes them a minute to mix peppermint oil and rosemary in with the coffee ground and eggshell seeped water they have sliding around in gallon jugs. Frank doesn’t spill a drop when he pours the liquid into his insecticide sprayer drum. The thing only carries a gallon, but it goes a long way.

Brendon follows suit the best he can while leaning against the back bumper to keep the hood up. Frank grabs their machetes and two towels before pulling clear. Brendon slams the trunk.

They split up to go hunting. It covers ground quicker. Gremlins are mischief-makers who just fucking love wreaking havoc. If they kill people, even better. It’s best to sneak attack them, catch them off guard.

At most, hopefully, they’re looking at two or three. If they’re quick, maybe, _maybe_ they won’t have to witness anyone’s death. Brendon’s not a fan of helping those people _home_. It’s somehow worse than his original assignments.

Traumatic doesn’t _even_ begin to cover it.

These are people who aren’t supposed to die until nasty, fucking gremlins - or anything else supernatural that blows into populated areas - get in the way. Most of the times, watchers catch a hint of activity and direct them in the right direction to minimize casualties. That doesn’t mean they can save everyone.

Nope. Of course not. Why would that be allowed?

The watchers always expect someone to die. It’s just statistics. Bad luck of the draw. Brendon _hates_ it. Hell, several of his black marks are because he and Frank decided, fuck it, they weren’t letting someone die if they could do something about it.

Whatever. He can handle the pain that comes with being remotely reprimanded. It’s one of the few things that can knock him on his ass for a few minutes. He _still_ doesn’t fucking care. 

Not one bit.

The watchers just love punishing him for refusing to be one of them. For wanting to have a relationship with a future gate watchman. Well, fuck them; he doesn’t _want_ to be part of their little administrative circle jerk of arrogance and better-than-everyone-else dickwads. 

If he’s been reduced to a glorified pest control, then so be it. He’s not alone. Frank’s right there at his side.

They’re doing this as a team until all their reprimands are paid for and they can go _home_ together. Which, isn’t ever going to happen. Well, Brendon’s not expecting it to because they pull so much shit that they’ll never break even.

Staying here sounds good enough for him. He doesn’t need a final resting place. Nor does he _want_ to be a watcher for infinity. 

Technically, he could walk away. Right now. Just drop his pest control gig and leave Frank to clean up the mess. Sure, there would be consequences he’d have to answer for, but most of his black marks would be waived, and he’d be fast-tracked into administration. 

The watchers are two down since Brendon fucked them over. If there’s something they hate above all other things, it’s shit not going the way it’s supposed to. Hence, them disliking gremlins with the passion of a thousand fiery suns exploding all at once.

Which in turn, explains _why_ Brendon and Frank get the joyous honor of being on gremlin detail. And rogue vampire nest detail. _And_ feral werewolf detail. Ad nauseum, etcetera, etcetera, blah, blah.

They get _all_ the special cases the rest of the Death Department doesn’t want to deal with. 

But yeah, the point is, Brendon doesn’t want to be anywhere else that doesn’t include Frank. And Frank sure as fuck doesn’t want to be a gate watchman. He hates the idea of manning the gate to what is basically _Hell_.

Okay, that’s harsh, and not exactly true. Heaven and Hell don’t exist in the whole Fire and Brimstone, Religious, Flailing Hands of Damnation way priests and reverends preach about. There’s no need to believe in anything. No religion to save anyone.

There’s just peace, love, and tranquility or anger, jealousy, and hate. Forever. You die, your _soul_ , or whatever it is - Brendon likes to call them _sparks_ \- is weighed by watchers and either you’re dragged to the Dark Gate or sent to the Harbor for a _boat_ ride.

That sounds horribly black and white. However, there’s a hell of a fucking lot of gray. You just need to know where to look. Like say, the secretarial staff that usher the dead _home_ and how - why - they’re chosen. 

Or, you know, ghosts. Those fuckers just bypass the whole matter by not _wanting_ to move on and not being important enough to become part of the Death Department. 

Whatever. It is what it is. Brendon’s gotten used to the order of things. Now, he’s just trying to decide if he should talk Frank into them finding a loophole in their deal with the watchers. Why stay under their thumb doing their dirty work when all that hard work isn’t going to payoff in the end?

Killing gremlins and other creepy, nasty things isn’t exactly glamorous, but they could be doing it elsewhere. And, shocker of all shockers, be getting paid for their troubles. However, as long as they’re still fucking bound by the Death Department and these damn, fucking reprimand marks, they can’t take Pete and Patrick up on their offer of employing them as full time creature hunters.

But it’s a possibility. Something to shoot for. If they can ever fucking figure out _how_ to quit their day job. 

When they ask for advice, Pete just grins like a lunatic, showing off his pointy, vampire teeth of assholery, and says they’ll figure shit out, eventually. Patrick, on the other hand, only adjusts his hat and goes back to whatever business he has to see to so he can keep Pete’s newest venture from going under.

If anyone would know, it _would_ be Patrick. He’s a fucking ex-watcher. He _has_ to know something. Yet, for some damn reason, he won’t tell them shit.

Whatever. They’ll figure something out.

But, for now, Brendon has a gremlin or two to poison before chopping its malicious, little head off.

He’s rounding a corner when he finds a smudge of dark mud drying on some bricks near an open door to a bakery with the sign _Coming Soon: Marvelous Munches_ hanging from the canopy over the door. Of course his trail would lead him to a bakery. The little, dick biters fucking love sugar even if the stuff hops them up.

Brendon really does _not_ like dealing with high gremlins. They’re a bitch to kill when they’re extra hyper. Luckily, there’s nothing edible in the kitchen when he cases the place. 

He finds the little fuck chewing on exposed electrical wiring jutting out from a breaker box. It’s pretty anti-climatic spraying the gremlin with the water, waiting for it to drop to the ground, and hacking through its sinewy neck with the machete. 

The job takes maybe fifteen minutes. Brendon isn’t going to complain. Easy work is easy work. 

When he’s finished writing a note for the shop owner about the state of the electrical panel, he slips out the front door, making sure to close it behind him. The few people walking to work move around him like ants scurrying to their queen.

A block away, Brendon finds Frank wiping dust from the sleeve of his denim jacket. There’s blood dripping down the side of his neck onto the collar of his jacket. Red smudges are smeared across the buttons Frank has pinned to the chest pocket. As if someone tried to hold on but didn’t have the strength to do so for long.

He tosses something small at Brendon’s head before picking up his sprayer drum so he can head back to the car. 

“Here. Something new for our collection.” Frank doesn’t even pretend to wipe at the blood as he walks off.

Brendon pops an earbud in and navigates the iPod Frank chucked at him with ease while rushing to catch up. Frank rarely acts this unfazed about blood, especially when it isn’t his. 

“Fuck, Frank. What happened?” Brendon slows to a sedate pace once he’s matching Frank step for step.

He doesn’t necessarily _need_ an answer. The iPod does that for them. It belongs to Shandra Toumens, a mother of two who works at the diner ten minutes from the bakery. Her iPod’s full of playlists made by her brother. 

Each playlist is for a different type of mood. Today is, apparently, a _Cheer Up, Buttercup_ day. 

“Fucking gremlin tripped her as it was taunting me. She cracked her skull open like a ripe melon when she fell. Got the fucking dick biting, vermin rat fucker but not before she bled gray matter out every-fucking-where.”

Brendon slides the iPod into a jean pocket so he can switch his insecticide drum to the other hand. He’s already tied the machete’s handle strap to a belt loop. So it’s not too difficult freeing up a hand to lay it on Frank’s shoulder.

Frank’s never cared much for helping people crossing over. When they first met, Frank was running down mean-ass motherfuckers who kept cheating death. He didn’t much like that either, but it was better than gate watch.

It took them two days of bitching and complaining about their respective jobs before agreeing to help each other. Jenna Colby and her _Love Will Prevail_ mixtape were their first gig. That was followed by taking down a burly, biker dick who hated women enough to beat them whenever he got the chance.

Caleb Mercer was the first guy Brendon ever knew who deserved to bite it. The first asshole he ever read as being Dark Gate material. Back then, he didn’t realize what that meant, that he knew how black-hearted Mercer was. He just thought all secretarial staff could tell when they were filing sparks away for good.

Frank sure as fuck didn’t tell him for months, even though the asshole knew. Brendon never fucking shut up about all the things he could read. All the hopes and dreams he suddenly _had_ to carry.

It wasn’t until they got busted for running together that Frank let that particular cat out of the bag. Maybe, he thought it would change Brendon’s mind or something. That he’d give Frank up and walk the straight and narrow. Anyone who’s ever known him would have told Frank he was sorely mistaken if he’d thought to ask them.

Frank doesn’t talk about it, so his reasons are still a mystery. They always will be. Brendon’s fine with that.

“Shit. You should have yelled. I would have come running. I take it the little fuckers didn’t bite you?” Brendon doesn’t miss Frank trying to shrug off his hand, like it’s a brand burning into flesh.

Shit, Frank did _something_ to earn a mark without Brendon around to take half the blame. Brendon fucking loathes when that happens. He can’t have Frank doing this shit often. 

There’s a reason they share the fuck ups because the alternative leads to Frank’s marks becoming too much for Brendon to keep paying the gate off over. Sure, they’ve taken hits separately; there’s no way they’d be able to split everything 50/50. But, still. Brendon _can’t_ lose Frank to a fucking technicality. 

He won’t.

He’s just got to trust Frank in knowing where his limits are and that he won’t do something stupid without asking for help. It’s irritating, but saying something won’t do any good. They’ll just end up yelling at each other about agency and free-fucking-will. 

“She had one of her sons with her.” It’s not a question and while Brendon’s not 100% sure he’s right, Frank turning to glare at him as if to say _like there would be any other reason to put my ass on the line like this?_ nails that coffin shut.

Brendon aborts his shoulder pat only to turn it into a sneak attack on Frank’s hair. “Come on, munchkin man, we’ll bypass the lumpy bed this time, but you’re still buying us a room. I’ll blow you in the shower after we save your jacket from the blood monster and do something about your hair. It’s grown out again.” 

Frank isn’t too happy about the hair thing. He’s pissed that buzzing it never works for more than a week. That after seven days, he’s back to the same style and length he had when he kicked it. It’s not like Frank’s hair is hippie long or cut in a weird way, if anything it’s the same length as Brendon’s. However, apparently, Frank has issues with the sameness or some shit.

It’s another thing he doesn’t talk about extensively, even if he bitches about losing his edge, all the damn time. 

Though, Brendon’s pretty sure that’s the genesis of Frank’s peer pressure, giggle bouts when he tries to talk Brendon into trying something different. To mess with the clean-cut look he can’t help but have. Not everyone got the chance to have a million tats before the reaper came knocking. 

Which, of course, led to a week where Brendon had spiky, bleached hair with purple lowlights. He looked pretty badass, but alas, that was not to last.

Like everything, it faded into nothing sooner than they liked. At least the dye had more staying power than the three-step cell phone of energy fail. What’s even better, Brendon’s hair dye tied with Frank’s Chia Pet hair growth. 

That shit made it harder for Frank to mock him when he’d also have to mock himself. 

Frank sprays him with the funky peppermint oil water before starting to giggle when Brendon retaliates in kind. There’s no telling _why_ he finds this funny. But, whatever, this is not a gift horse being looked in the mouth, Brendon’s going to ride this stallion until it won’t go an inch farther.

It doesn’t hurt that he’s missed happy-Frank. The last few months have been like driving through an endless thunderstorm of rain and gray skies. So, to have Frank shaking off his funk over once again having to step into Brendon’s shoes to be something he never asked for, but got anyway, is not something to push away. 

Hell no. This is something to cherish. A butterfly with beautiful glass wings that should be nurtured.

Brian Ferry’s singing _is your love strong enough_ in Brendon’s ear when they spot the Thunderbird. The fluffy, green towels Pete and Patrick gifted them last Christmas are still sitting on the closed trunk. Their ‘67 model is a sight for sore eyes right about now, considering she’s about as close to a non-person-shaped home as they’re going to get.

Even if they find a way to transfer from the Death Department, Brendon doesn’t think they’ll be staying at Gentleman Kings or in the nearby area. Too many people they used to know live close. And while visiting is something Brendon would never want to put a stop to, he can’t just _hang_ around. It isn’t fair to anyone.

Especially if he’s talking about Spencer, who’s only alive - and fucked up, mind you - because Brendon couldn’t stay away. Hell, even with Spencer being one of the only _living_ watchers to ever fucking exist, Brendon _still_ can’t keep his distance. 

It’s a problem, okay.

Brendon knows he should stop dropping by and stalking from a safe distance, but he doesn’t. He worries about Spencer and how he’s adjusting to being what pretty much boils down to being a traditional _medium_. 

Only, that’s not strictly a good descriptor, for many reasons.

None of which are things Brendon really understands. He’s dead and a probationary, almost ex watcher. He’s not alive. He doesn’t have to deal with knowing when someone’s going to die and if they’re _naughty_ or _nice_ in a way that keeps him up at night. He doesn’t have nightmares about it. And he’s sure as fuck not bound to living at least thirty more years as punishment for something that isn’t even his fucking fault.

So yeah, Brendon screwed up. Frank was with him at the time. He helped Brendon kill the pixies that decided to one-up the gremlins in the twisted, kill humans for amusement, prank game that was last-minute destined to land Spencer in the same department as Brendon. However, that doesn’t make this any less Brendon’s fault than it already is.

Who knows, maybe Spencer would have been happy as a watcher. He’s got the spark for admin work. He’d be better at it than Brendon is. He already is, and half the people in Portland think he’s crazy, while the other half think he and Ryan are the cutest hetrosexual life partners they’ve ever met.

There are days that last thought brings a smile to Brendon’s face. It’s just fucking _hard_ not imagining how ridiculous that is or seeing it for himself when he _visits_. So maybe, he’s fucked everything up, but whatever, they’re all moving on.

He and Frank have a semi-existence while Ryan gets to be the failiest psychic’s assistant to ever assist a psychic, ever. Brendon’ll take that any day, compared to the alternative.

Frank throws a towel at Brendon’s head to get his attention. “Earth to star-child Urie, I was asking if you wanted coffee.” Frank grabs for Brendon’s gear and stows it quickly, even the machete, which he’s already untied from Brendon’s belt loop while Brendon was miles away thinking about old friends.

“Nah.” Brendon wipes off with the towel after taking the earbud out and stuffing it into his pocket. The iPod died at the end of “Is Your Love Strong Enough” anyway. There’s no reason to keep listening to it when there’s no way to charge it. Plus, Brendon doesn’t know if he wants to listen to more love songs.

“How about we do that tonight. Make it a date. Coffee with a movie after. There’s nothing on our schedule for 48 hours. We totally have time.”

Frank groans when Brendon mentions the _d_ word, but he doesn’t disagree. “Coffee and a bar after. We’ll find a band. I’m not going within fifty feet of a place that could be playing _R.I.P.D._ ”

Brendon fist pumps without meaning to. “Score.” Then he drapes himself across Frank’s shoulders while he closes the trunk. “Frankie Iero, you’re the bestest boyfriend any guy could ever have.”

That’s only partially a joke. And it’s the closest Brendon’s ever gotten to saying he’s in love with Frank. He’d like to think Frank knows. It’s not like he’s uttering sweet nothings into Brendon’s ear at night, either. 

They’re not the type to say those things. Well, Brendon used to be, but dying tends to change shit like that. A person’s idiosyncrasies get butchered and twisted. Or in Brendon’s case, he hooked up with an emotionally-stunted future gate watchman who enjoys cursing like a sailor and isn’t good at sharing his innermost thoughts.

So of course, the end result is that he curses more than he ever did when he drew breath, and he doesn’t do the _sharing_ and _caring_ thing as much as he’d like. Whatever. It’s an even trade-off in his books.

Usually, Frank shoves Brendon off while grousing _yeah, yeah, yeah_ under his breath in a dismissive way when he gets hyper like this. However, this morning, he just pinches Brendon’s side and nods his head “You know it.”

There’s no joking lilt to his voice. _Holy fuck_ , Brendon realizes with a start, this is the closest Frank’s ever going to get to saying how he feels. 

This is the blazing sign of affection and fondness Brendon’s been waiting for. If there’s a tinge of something sad lurking in the back of Frank’s tone, that doesn’t matter. Everything’s a million times better now. A little discomfort over admitting his feelings might not be a bad thing for Frank to get used to.

Brendon kisses Frank’s bloody cheek. “Someone’s pretending to be Han Solo, again.” When he pulls away, he makes sure to ruffle Frank’s hair. It gets him a shove and a glare, but it was worth it.

“Can it, Urie. We’re leaving. You can bounce like Gumby when we get to the room.”

The rest of the day isn’t very eventful. The summer sun bakes the asphalt and stirs up storm clouds in the distance while they bask in the Arctic Tundra that their hotel room has become. They leave the curtain open to let sunlight in after their shower antics blow all the room lights.

Brendon smiles to himself while he touches up Frank’s always spotty buzz job. They spent way too damn long under the hot water. Long enough for the water to get frigid. And even then, they didn’t leave until the bathroom was plunged into darkness.

They _were_ going to shower after cutting Frank’s hair and cleaning his jacket. However, their plans changed course when they got to the room and Frank shoved Brendon against the hotel door to get at him three seconds after it closed behind them. 

It’s another mystery of the universe as to why they can feel arousal. Of how they can bleed and come even though their hearts don’t beat. It defies logic. 

Brendon got tired trying to figure out the physics of it years ago. This is just something he’ll never know. That’s fine.

Maybe it’s a perk of being future admin staff. Whatever the reason, at least, they still get to have sex.

By the time the sun sets, they’ve had to shower again because Frank let Brendon pin him to the floor and have his way with him. They change into clean clothing with the room radio on in the background. The station is having an eighties metal marathon so “Condition Critical” is on while Brendon tugs on a yellow tee before shrugging into his favorite red and black checked western shirt.

Frank squints at him, “yellow, _seriously_?” before humming along with the chorus. 

Brendon nods while grinning. “Yup. Like your plaid and denim combo makes any sense, either.”

Frank flips him off.

Instead of driving to the coffee shop and the bar, they walk. It’s good to get out and take the time to go slow. Brendon likes this. He can almost pretend they’re alive and just two regular guys going out on a date. Not two dead dudes who are way past the dating stage and more firmly in the co-dependently married category by now.

When they get to the local shop, the coffee doesn’t taste like anything. Not even cardboard. It is, however, hot. Which is as good as they ever get anymore, unless it’s vodka.

Brendon hums a few bars of a pop song once he’s picked up the pattern of the tune. Frank shakes his head but doesn’t say anything. 

“What would you do, if you weren’t here?” 

Brendon swallows, slowly. He’s lucky he doesn’t have to breathe or he’d have choked. “That’s a stupid question, dick. Whatever you’re doing. Your turn.” 

Frank drains his coffee. “Nevermind, asshole. Doesn’t matter.”

He doesn’t try to keep up the conversation even when Brendon goes into pester mode after that depressing _not_ answer. He _does_ , however, crowd Brendon against the brick outside the coffee shop when they leave. He whispers against Brendon’s mouth right before they kiss. “I’m being an idiot, don’t worry about it, okay?”

Brendon nods when they pull away from each other so they can pretend to be stupid teenagers and cut through an abandoned lot near the shop. It’s, apparently, the quickest way to the bar down the block that has a jamming, live band tonight. 

“We’re talking about this when we get back to the hotel room. You’ve been weird lately.” Brendon ends with singing _we can work it out_ at Frank. 

Frank shoves at Brendon’s shoulder as they walk. He’s not the biggest Beatles fan. That’s part of the fun of quoting that band at him. Obviously. 

The street light nearby casts shadows in an unusual way, but Brendon shrugs it off. He’s not feeling anything out of the ordinary, and if Frank is, he’s not letting on in the least.

It isn’t until they’re almost through the ruins of the unfinished grocery store that Brendon really notices the change in temperature. It’s suddenly chilly. That’s a dead ringer for something bad going down.

Brendon just doesn’t know what it is until a hand covers his mouth while a dead voice whispers for him to be still and quiet as another shadow tackles Frank to the dirt.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

This is _not_ good. 

There shouldn’t be gate watchmen here. This place hasn’t done anything to warrant a cleansing. Which means this is specific.

Brendon struggles until another shadow is standing in front of him. It’s hard to make out its expressions in the dark. However, Brendon’s doesn’t need light to know the watchmen are determined. That the one standing in front of him has a purpose.

“Light Watcher Urie, it has come to our attention that you and your charge haven’t been keeping up your end of the bargain. We’re here to collect our due. One of our brothers will take you to your things so you do not have to watch the unpleasantries.”

Behind the High Watchman, Frank’s being pulled to his feet by two bulkier shadows. He’s cursing, loudly. “I was fucking told I had longer. Fuck off, and go sodomize bridge trolls while you’re at it. We’re busy tonight, and every other damn night after that.” 

Brendon freezes. He thinks if his blood wasn’t already cold, it would be now. No. This can’t be right. There’s no way they haven’t been following the rules the best they can.

They haven’t gone against the mandatory statistics as often as they’d like. Brendon’s been shouldering as many marks as he can. He has enough now that he _knows_ the rest of the admin staff get it. The watchers **know** he’s not coming back. That he’s condemned himself to an existence of never _sleeping_. 

They’re just being stubborn about it.

The High Watchman turns from Brendon to look at Frank. “Twins, Iero. Brothers. One for us and one for the light watchers. You took them both away this morning. Forty years, we will have to wait because you couldn’t bear to do your job. We knew light watching would not fit you, but you and your partner would not listen when you pacted with us and the watchers.” 

Brendon’s shaking his head. No, he’d have known if Frank had done that. But, then. He does know that. Doesn’t he? Frank wouldn’t talk about it earlier, would he? And he never denied Brendon when he asked about Shandra. Brendon just foolishly thought she only had one of her sons with her and not both of them when she went by work to pick up her check.

They should have been too young to be watchers and watchmen. It doesn’t make any sense. Except. Maybe that’s not the point. The Dark Gate’s gotten impatient, and they’re just taking this opportunity to abuse the contract.

Which means Brendon has one last ditch effort to do _something_.

“I wish to contest this ruling on the grounds that no watcher is present to confirm your allegations.”

The High Watchman crowds Brendon against his captor and places a bony hand under his chin to lift his head. “Light Watcher Urie, we do not need confirmation. Iero was warned on the eve of April’s first greening to reign in his insurrections. He did not. It is not our business whether he told you or not. By reaching the level we last warned him against, he has nulled the contract. We will, of course, give you a few minutes to sort out affairs.”

Brendon gets shoved toward Frank as the gate watchmen take a few steps back. Running won’t do any good. They’re ringed by the damn, fucking shadows of death. 

“You should have fucking _told_ me! We could have done something!” Brendon knows he’s yelling. He doesn’t care. 

Frank doesn’t say anything, just tugs on Brendon’s wrist until they’re hugging. Brendon claws fingers into the back of Frank’s denim jacket. He can’t let this happen.

He’s fought too fucking hard - they both have - for this to be the end. 

Distantly, he’s aware that he’s crying against Frank’s neck. That he can still smell where the blood soaked into the collar. They got the red smudges off Frank’s shiny, pop culture buttons but not out of the collar. They were going to do that after the bar.

Thunder booms in the distance. Brendon holds on harder. He starts whispering, “I’m going to figure something out. I promise. I’ll fix this. I promise.”

Frank tugs at him until he can get hands on Brendon’s face. “Don’t. You can go _home_ , now.” Then he’s kissing Brendon as slowly as he can.

It feels like _I love you_ and _goodbye_ rolled into one.

No. 

Brendon shoves at Frank’s shoulders. “ _No._ ” Then he spins on his heels and hunts for the High Watchman. “Give me 48 hours to offer you something better. Please.”

Frank digs fingers into Brendon’s shoulder to get his attention. He’s telling Brendon not to do this. Brendon can’t not. He does his best to ignore Frank. It’s hard.

The High Watchman inclines his hood to the left. “You have until the witching hours begin. And even then, our answer will only be given the hour before dawn.”

Brendon nods. It’s the best he’s going to get. 

With that, the shadow from earlier drags him away from Frank. Cold, bone fingers clamp against his upper arm as they walk. The gate watchman is silent.

Brendon has always wondered why the watchmen where skeletons but the runners for them still seemed human in appearance. Frank once tried to explain it as the runners having essence while the actual watch lost theirs the longer they stood at the gate. That Frank would become that if he ever stopped running for the Dark Gate and took his rightful place.

That after his placement, he would have to wait a millennia or two until a light watcher was ready to go _home_ and decided to take a watchman with them.

The weather is muggy and moist when Brendon’s dropped off at his hotel room. He slams into the room with a fury he never knew he was capable of, cutting on the TV for light as he passes by.

How dare Frank do this. He could have said _something_. Anything! But he didn’t.

Brendon drops to the edge of their rented bed when he realizes, Frank did tell him. Fuck, Frank was trying to tell him for months. Just in his usual asshole way. 

All the conversations about Brendon moving on. What he would do if this _life_ wasn’t an option. Frank was trying to prepare him for being alone. He was letting go.

He should have been fighting, but Brendon understands. Frank couldn’t find a way so he was giving Brendon up to keep from dragging him down with him. 

None of that matters, though, because Brendon’s going to think of something. He just doesn’t know what that is. He has no clue. Not yet.

Fuck, what if there isn’t anything? What if he’s forced to go back? What if the watchers drag him back?

Brendon shakes his head and presses his palms against his eyes for three breaths that he doesn’t need before pushing off the mattress and going to pack. He needs to think and to do that, he has to shut his brain up for a few minutes so he doesn’t panic.

He’s in the process of folding his pants from this morning when a white earbud slithers out. Brendon pauses. He forgot to toss the iPod into the box with the other memories he can’t get rid of.

Of all the people they’ve _met_ who’ve found peace. The people Brendon and Frank have directed to the Harbor ...

Brendon drops his pants when it clicks. The watchmen want rest, just like everyone else. Stripping Frank of his status or pulling him apart bit by bit to extract his essence won’t give the High Watchman what he wants.

He wants to give some of his oldest guard rest. Why else would he be opportunistic now? It didn’t make sense before, but now it does.

And Brendon. He can do that. Not for the whole watch. However, a few? He can do that.

Or.

He _thinks_ he can.

Frank is _not_ going to be happy. Whatever. He should have said something so they could have come up with a game plan. Instead, he took that choice off the table. This gets to be Brendon’s turn to do something risky and stupid.

He leaves their stuff in the room, minus the iPod, and books it to the Thunderbird. He’s lucky Frank tossed the keys to him earlier when he went to pay for the room. 

Brendon pops the driver’s side door so the back door can swing open when he grabs it. On any other night he’d be laughing his ass off over the fact that their baby has suicide doors. It’s something that never ceases to amaze him, that their home is a fucking classic Ford with suicide doors and hidden headlights.

She might have her finicky days, but she’s where they belong. Brendon runs a hand down the leather back seat before crawling in so he can reach the box behind the passenger seat. When he has it tugged up out of the floorboard, he tosses the iPod in with everything else.

Thunder rolls in the background as lightning begins to crack across the sky. _Please, don’t rain, not yet,_ is the best he can do when it comes to praying now that he knows for a fact there’s no one living beyond the clouds. 

Once he has the box, he slides out of the backseat and plops the cardboard on the ground. He shuts the back door and leans across the front seat to grab the mixtape box he’s heavily decorated with hearts and skulls in Sharpies of all different colors and shades - including metallic for Frank - over the years.

When he has that, he deposits it on top of the other box and goes back to close the Thunderbird’s doors.

Maybe this will work. He hopes it does. If it doesn’t he hasn’t the damnedest clue what he’ll do. He’s not going back, and he’s not leaving Frank behind.

The walk back to the abandoned grocery store isn’t fun. Being dead doesn’t mean the boxes he’s carrying are light. Whatever, he wasn’t going to drive their girl here. She deserves better than to be left in an abandoned lot. At least at the hotel, if they never come back, management will run the tags, and Pete’ll get a notice when she’s been impounded. 

Seeing as the Thunderbird’s registered under his name. Even if she was another one of Pete’s gifts to them when he realized they needed transportation that got them away from the Death Department and out on the wide openness of the highways and byways of infinite possibilities.

Brendon stops walking when he gets to where they were caught before. He sets the boxes down. Then he takes the mixtape box out of the other so he can set it to the side. When he’s done that, he upends CD’s, iPods, memory sticks, and mp3 players to scatter at his feet.

He sits down at the shore of media and tugs the mixtape box into his lap. The wind kicks up, ruffling his hair. 

It’s going to storm soon. He hopes it holds back a while longer.

Slowly, one tape after another, Brendon starts to unravel the mixtapes. Kennedy, Jenna, and everyone else who owned these relics don’t need them anymore. They’re nothing more than trinkets of the past.

Anchors. 

Only, the people who made them, either died years ago or don’t need them to remember the people they lost. Brendon doesn’t need them either. He never has. He just thought he did.

They both thought they did.

Thought hanging onto the past would help them find a way to freedom. It hasn’t. You have to go through, not backpedal. So, that’s what Brendon’s doing.

He’s doing exactly what Frank did. He’s letting go. Just, he’s still holding on to what matters.

When he gets to the last mixtape - Jenna’s - he stands. The thunder tapers off, turning the night into a silent thing ready to snap and bite at those unfortunate enough to be out at this hour. 

The High Watchman is standing on the other side of the pile of memories when Brendon looks up and away from the broken items at his feet.

“If you set Frank back on the road as a runner in appearance and thought, I will give you everything I have.” Brendon slowly unspools the tape as he speaks. “The only thing I ask is that you show me the same courtesy. Take what you need to send several of your brothers _home_ , just leave enough of a spark that I can walk _with_ him.” 

The last of the tape falls out as he finishes speaking, and Brendon lets it drop from his numb fingers. It hits the top of the pile with a clatter and slides down the side to stop at the High Watchman’s shrouded feet. 

“You are aware that what you propose, Light Watcher Urie, sentences you and Iero to an eternity of unrest? That you and he will _never_ sleep. That you will be trapped on this wasteland until it ceases to exist?”

Brendon doesn’t even nod. If anything he clenches his jaw so he doesn’t say something stupid. This is what he’s expected since the beginning. In ways, he _wants_ it to happen. Wants to get it over with so they can begin to start over.

“How many of yours could my essence send to the Harbor? Three? Four, with what you’ve stripped from Frankie? It’s your decision. If I walk away, I won’t offer again.”

The High Watchman reaches out and grips Brendon’s left wrist. His fingers are tight and painful. Electricity races up Brendon’s arm, and he knows he screams. He hasn’t felt this horrible since he died. Since the aquarium he was trying to stock had a faulty wire loose around the motor that killed all of the fish and him in one zap.

Brendon’s knees hit the ground without him even noticing it. When the High Watchman lets go, he falls face first against the ruined tapes. He feels empty in a way that he didn’t know was possible. 

When the Night Watchman vanishes, so does the pile of media. Brendon lays against the dirt, unmoving for some time. He just can’t find it in himself to get up. He doesn’t have Frank back.

He should have expected the Dark Gate to trick him. 

Eventually, the clouds begin to open up, so he rises on wobbly feet and makes it to the Thunderbird before he’s drenched. He ends up in the back seat curled into himself. He shouldn’t be muddying her up like this, but Brendon finds he doesn’t care. He just wants to _not be_ for awhile.

He wants to not exist. Which can’t happen, not anymore. He starts laughing uncontrollably when he thinks that. It gets so bad that he starts choking on tears hard enough that it physically hurts.

The rain barely drowns out his hysterical laughter, even though it’s pouring as hard as it can. Brendon doesn’t know how long he stays like that. Eventually, he climbs out of the back, and sprawls in the driver’s seat. He thinks about cutting the Thunderbird on and trying to find something to listen to, but he’s afraid of finding nothing more than static and scripture.

Instead, he fishes out his wallet and pulls out his license. It hasn’t expired in seven years, even though it’s original expiration date was August 2006. He’s about to open the door and toss it when lightning cracks across the sky in a brilliant flash of white. 

_August 2013_. That’s what it now reads. Brendon blinks and rubs at his eyes with one hand while sliding his license into his wallet again. He drops it onto the passenger seat and rests his head against the steering wheel.

He doesn’t sleep. Of course, he _doesn’t_. But he does drift in memories for some time. The rain never lets up. There must be flashflood warnings for the county, by now.

Suddenly, there’s the sound of something cracking, and it takes a second for Brendon to realize he wasn’t hearing thunder when the Thunderbird rocks with the force of something impacting with the side of the car. 

A hand smears down the rain-soaked window before disappearing.

Brendon sits frozen for longer than he feels happy about before his brain catches up with everything that’s happened. He doesn’t know what time it is, but maybe, maybe it’s right before dawn and the Dark Gate didn’t lie to him?

If it’s not, he’s only going to get soaked. It’s not like the rain can make him sick. He pops the door open and slips out of the Thunderbird while doing his best to keep her from getting too much water in her seats.

On the next crack of lightning he’s sliding down the side of the Thunderbird. Frank’s a few feet away. He’s on his knees, in a heap, like he was thrown against something and scuttled backwards after he hit ground, out of habit. Brendon should get up, he should fucking stand and run to Frank.

He finds he can’t. He’s empty, and he’s hurting, and he doesn’t know what to do.

“Brendon?” Frank’s voice is thin. It cracks at the end of Brendon’s name and that’s all he needs to scramble forward to wrap arms around Frank’s shoulders and hold on as hard as he fucking can.

Frank drags Brendon’s face down until they’re kissing. It’s frantic, and Brendon finds himself laughing again. Frank pulls back, and they stand together. 

They get to their baby before Frank presses Brendon against the door and leans against him to keep from falling over. “What did you do?” He sounds angry, but under that, he’s relieved and just as empty as Brendon feels.

Brendon runs a hand over Frank’s buzzed hair. He wonders if this means Frank gets to bitch about not having much hair at all after this. It’s possible. If Brendon’s I.D. is now useless, maybe that means they’ve been reset.

“What I had to. Good news, I don’t think we work for the DD, now. Bad news, I think you’re going to have to quit or start hustling for your smokes; I don’t think they’re going to be everlasting anymore.”

Frank clenches his hands in Brendon’s wet western shirt. “Fuck, _Brendon_ , why the fucking fuck did you do that?”

Brendon wraps a hand around Frank’s wrist and uses the other to drag him closer, which isn’t exactly possible, but whatever, Brendon’s making it work for them so that’s all that matters.

“If it isn’t obvious, I have a thing for ill-tempered midgets covered in ink.” 

Frank kisses him to shut him up. The rain starts to taper off. Brendon hugs Frank when they pull apart.

“Before you ask. It’s permanent. Yes, I knew that when I offered. And, _yes_ , I’m fucking fine with it. You’re stuck with me until the wheels on this damn planet fall off, literally.” Brendon bites at Frank’s lip before grinning hysterically. “So, you’re going to have to get used to it, shortie.”

Frank presses Brendon against the side of the Thunderbird, again. If Brendon didn’t know any better he’d say Frank wanted to climb into Brendon’s chest to nest. That’s all it mentally takes to get Brendon laughing once more.

“We’re going to talk about this, later.” Frank cards fingers through Brendon’s wet hair. He tugs at the strands to get Brendon’s attention. “But first, we’re going inside to explore the fuck out of that lumpy-ass mattress we neglected before.”

Hell yes. 

Brendon’s down for that. 

They can talk about how they’re together until time runs itself down when they check-out. There are a lot of things to talk about. Like how they’re going to pay for gas, now, if Frank’s credit card is also expired. 

Though, it’s not like they don’t have new jobs lined up and waiting for them. 

Brendon tugs at Frank’s denim jacket as they walk from the Thunderbird to the hotel room. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

Frank bats at Brendon’s hand, only to slot their fingers together instead of being a total tool. Brendon almost misses his _in_ when Frank humors him by saying “What does it mean?” because he’s distracted by Frank’s willingness to hold hands.

“Pete’s going to be beside himself with foot-in-mouth syndrome when we show up asking if he still wants to hire us. Patrick’s going to wish he could have an aneurism. Like that one time when that witch doctor walked in with the zombie priest.”

Frank laughs against Brendon’s lips. “Patrick’s going to hate us for that.” 

Brendon shrugs. 

“Eh. He’ll get over it.”

The hotel door closes behind them, and Frank freezes at Brendon’s side. The room isn’t a mess. Well, their things are packed, and the bed’s still made, but the TV’s smashed and the bathroom mirror’s in pieces.

Brendon can’t begin to care. He’s happy. He has what he needs. If Frank wants to bitch at him, he can. It isn’t going to change shit.

He did what he had to. A shattered mirror isn’t worth much in the grand scheme of things.

Frank doesn’t say anything. Though, he does back Brendon up against the door for a repeat performance of yesterday’s festivities.

“I’m sorry.”

Brendon swallows the words in acceptance before pushing off the door so he can drag Frank to the bed. “I think someone promised me mattress adventures. We’ve already explored the door. It’s boring now.”

Frank giggles and pushes Brendon down against the comforter. “I think I remember someone saying that, but fuck if I know who. Do you know what he looked like?”

Brendon reaches up and drags Frank down until his jacket’s sticking to Brendon’s wet shirt. “I don’t know. You might have to remind me. I think he was short, but that’s all I can remember.” 

Frank pokes Brendon’s neck and smiles against his lips. “I can do that.”

The past is gone, sure, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a future out there waiting for them. That’s all that’s left, really. An infinite supply of tomorrows.


End file.
